


When In Doubt, Be A Witch Dog

by Sylphidine_Gallimaufry



Series: Tales of Nightmare Dork University [11]
Category: Guardians of Childhood & Related Fandoms, Nightmare Dork University - Fandom, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, NDU Nightmare Galleon, Nightmare Dork University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry/pseuds/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry
Summary: Pitch gets an earful from Pitchiner's grandmother. The conversation does not go as he expects.





	When In Doubt, Be A Witch Dog

The caller ID on his phone read “ANSELMO M”, which puzzled Pitch until he played the voicemail message.  The woman’s voice was elderly but firm.  The slight Italian accent, not to mention the fact that she identified herself as “Mama”, clinched it.  No one on either side of the Black family would ever have so much warmth in their tones, nor referred to themselves in anything but the most formal terms.  It just wasn’t done.

But why was Pitchiner’s grandmother phoning Pitch?  And at this ridiculous hour?  It was 2am on a Friday morning.

Not that the time mattered, nor the day of the week.  He hadn’t been sleeping anyway.  Not when he’d been relegated to his old room without the company of his oafish bedmate.

Pitchiner and Pitch had been avoiding one another for most of the last week after yet another argument.  Pitch could not even remember what it had been about, but apparently one of his barbs had struck deeper than usual.  That could be the only reason why, two nights ago, Coz had packed a duffle bag and left a note on the fridge for Proto… PROTO!!!  No note, no word, nothing for Pitch.  When Pitch demanded to know what the note said and where Pitchiner had gone, Proto had smiled his irritating little half-grin and stayed silent.

Now, however, this voicemail message promised to solve the mystery.  He replayed it.

_“Pitch, sweetheart, it’s Mama.  I think something is upset between you and my Cossimo, but he will not tell me.  Can you call me, please?”_

Pitch’s deeply ingrained good manners warred with his annoyance at Pitchiner.  True, four days ago that annoyance had been rage, but his own temper had cooled somewhat over the course of time.  Good manners won; Pitch hit the “return call” button.

“Mrs. Anselmo?  It’s Pitch Black.”

He heard a chuckle on the other end of the connection. “Who’s this Mrs. Anselmo?  Nobody here like that… must be some  _vecchia_.”

Despite himself, Pitch smiled and replied, with only a slightly awkward hesitation, “You’re right, of course… Mama Michelina.”

“That’s better, dear.  Now is a good time to talk, yes?  My Andy has taken the boy down to Fulton for the fish, they won’t be back for hours.”

Pitch shifted in his desk chair. “Yes, now is fine.”

“Good, good.” There was the briefest of sighs.  “I was not expecting to see Cossimo until  _Pasqua_ … I mean, Easter, and even then we were supposed to drive to Vivy and Sam’s, not have the family here.  While it is always good to see our grandson during the school year, he usually calls first and brings you, or that nice little Jack…” Her voice trailed off.

“And you think that I kicked him out?” Pitch interjected, his guilty conscience prodding him.  He was startled by the response he got to that, and the volume at which it was expressed.

“Now listen here, Pitch.  Don’t you be so thick in the head!”

The theatre student couldn’t help but grin at that turn of phrase; it was one he’d thrown at Pitchiner often enough.

His grin faded as a thought flashed across his mind.  Had he used that phrase in their latest fight?  Could he actually have made the big lug homesick?

The thought was enough to distract him to the point that Mama Michelina had to repeat herself several times.  “Pitch?  Pitch, dear, are you still there?”

He shook his head to clear it and said, “Yes, I’m sorry, the connection dropped out for a minute.”

“I said, it takes two to have a quarrel, and I know my Cossimo.  He can be _ottuso_ too, especially if his pride is hurt. I am sure he was unkind to you”, her tone softening, “and that is why I called, to see if YOU are all right.  Not to yell at you.”

“Now there’s a first,” Pitch couldn’t help but blurt out.  “Your grandson seems to have no problem with that.”

“I know, and that is why I think you need to be his  _cane stregone_.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She laughed and repeated, “ _Cane stregone_.  He needs a witch dog.”

Pitch wondered what dimension he’d wandered into where the phrase “witch dog” had ** _ever_**  made sense, or how it could possibly relate to him. Even in his worst dreams of being stalked by smoky, oily, violent and viciously sarcastic versions of himself, every word he spoke or was spoken to him had been understandable.  

He was suddenly very tired, feeling the lateness of the hour, feeling the length of the week, and, horror of horrors, feeling a tad weepy.  The kindness of this confusing old woman, who by dint of her religion and her generation’s values should be denouncing him as an unnatural abomination and a menace to society, was making him become unraveled.  In a moment he *would* be in tears if he didn’t turn this conversation into something he could handle.

“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Mrs. - I mean, Mama.  Why do you think I’d be a good…  _cane stregone_?”  

“Let me tell you something.  My Andy and I used to have a big dog that we called Stregone, a good guard dog when this neighborhood was not as good as now.  Very fierce, very loyal… loving, not so much.  Not until Cossimo stayed with us one summer when his parents were away.

“Oh, it didn’t happen all at once.  Stregone would growl and snarl, but Cossimo would snarl back.  I think one time Stregone bit Cossimo’s ear and Cossimo bit him back... They went everywhere, and it got so that my Andy would joke that they were both witch dogs.  Cossimo was not easy to love that summer… all mouth and backtalk.  But that dog loved him, and he loved that dog, and they made each other better.”

Mama Michelina paused and then said in a quiet voice, “Because you both scratch and bite and snarl and love all at once, Pitch…. You are good for Cossimo and he is good for you, am I right?”

After a long moment, Pitch replied, “I don’t know.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.

She sighed again. “My grandson will be heading back up to school after dinner on Sunday.  Think about what I said, and be good to yourself, sweetheart.”

He managed to make inane parting noises and switched off his phone.  He went into Coz’s room for the first time in days, lay down on the bed, and went almost instantly to sleep.

====================================

Pitchiner returned to the apartment just after 10PM on Sunday night and was thankful to see all three bedroom doors shut. Purradox and Tarminator were sound asleep on either end of the faded green couch.  He felt guilty for not even wanting to play with his pug, but all he wanted at the moment was to be vertical and quiet.

The first thing to catch his eye was his double bed made up with fresh clean sheets, and it looked like someone had made an attempt at honest-to-goodness crisp hospital corners.  The big duvet was folded at the end of the bed.

The second thing to catch his eye was the someone who had made the attempt, asleep in Pitchiner’s chair at Pitchiner’s desk, head buried in folded arms. Drool soaked the tidy sleeve of a crisp black dress shirt, worn under a taupe satin-back vest.  Grace and elegance personified.  Frustrating, irritating, damnably gorgeous and distracting man.

Sometimes silent apologies were best, both given and received.

Pitch didn’t stir as Pitchiner gently lifted him up off the chair and only murmured muzzily when shifted into a bridal carry and transferred to the bed, disrupting its neatness.  Pitchiner undressed himself and Pitch quickly, but could tell from the way Pitch was curled on his side that fun times were going to lose out to exhaustion.  

Oh, well, there was always the morning.  Pitchiner manoeuvered himself so that he was lying between Pitch’s akimbo arms and legs and chuckled at the thought that it was a rare thing for *him* to be the little spoon.

It served Pitchiner right, when he shared this thought with Pitch upon awakening, that Pitch bit him on the ear.

 


End file.
